Liminal Spaces

My lover dwells in the liminal spaces —
the stretch of the shore where the tide touches sand;
in doorways she dances, on path’s edge, she paces —
and twilight’s the moment she’s ever at hand.

She straddles horizons and finds it essential
to take of the time neither quite day or night;
she lives for the crisp, cutting edge of potential,
the moment before sparks may kindle to light,

when the sky is ‘that color’ and birds are just waking;
in the breath before words when the song’s just begun;
in the moment before peak, almost coming, almost breaking;
in the pulse of the heart, the downbeat of the drum.

She stays awake late, talks for hours before sleeping,
cat-walks morning’s edge, so’s to stay in her dream,
and calls me to come back to the warmth of her keeping,
where ever she dwells in the places between.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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